Absinthe
by Thalia Kendall
Summary: Bittersweet and intoxicating and dangerous... Bellatrix Black, cruelty, dominance, and Rodolphus Lestrange [BellaRodolphus WIP]
1. A Taste of Intoxication

A/N: Another 10x100, written for Kirixchi. Bellatrix/Rodolphus, which surprisingly I don't see a lot. Yes, I'll be the first to admit that Blackcest disgusts me to no end. 10x100, for those who cannot understand, means 10 drabbles of roughly 100 words apiece, all tied together.  
  
Disclaimer: No, don't own, blah. And I have to say that I don't want a Bellatrix for Christmas, either. There can only be one bitch in the house.  
  
~*~  
  
1) She tasted alcohol, sharp as knives on her tongue, when she was eight. Both sisters were still babies, too young.  
  
She knew it meant that her parents no longer thought her a baby, if she could take the burning tang that lingered on her sensitive tastebuds.  
  
The little girl swept long locks of raven hair behind her and sneered as the alcohol surged up her white-clad body (fallen angel), sharp white teeth bared.  
  
The guests were polite and saccharine and gushed that dear little Bellatrix had such a pretty smile, except the boy in the corner who sneered right back.  
  
2) Bellatrix did not kiss her family goodbye when she left for school. As she stepped onto the train, head held high, because she was a Black and better.  
  
She curled her lip as she watched Alice Fettersley simper at the Longbottom boy. Fettersley was a pureblood and a Prefect, but she was fat and poor and her family was in TRADE, the lack of Muggles in their lineage their only saving grace.  
  
The little girl watched with cruel, detached interest as the blonde Gryffindor stepped forward, and when Alice tripped over a daintily extended foot in a polished Black shoe, Bellatrix felt pleasure even as the older girl blushed and glared.  
  
3) Slytherin House was like the House of Black. Pure and cold and a web of opulently ruthless members close as enemies or family, polished as ice or jewels.  
  
Bellatrix managed to keep the sneer upon her face and remain beautiful as she brushed the hundred strokes through her hair. She felt a savage sense of satisfaction as Hortensia Bulstrode and Desdemona Wilkes, her new roommates to be, hissed in envy.  
  
They couldn't hold a candle to her: cruelly beautiful like winter.  
  
She went to class the next day and the Defense professor praised her for knowing how to pronounce the incantation to the Jellylegs Jinx.  
  
4) She went to the library and asked the ugly old crone in the dull green robes at the front desk for a book that she's started reading at home. The woman snarled houndlike something about the Restricted Section and how she as a first-year was forbidden from entering it.  
  
But she was a Black, and the hauteur was pooling on her tongue like ice when a boy cut in front of her, green and silver badge upon his chest, and requested the exact same book as she had.  
  
When he left the library, Curses for the Curious tucked under his arm, Bellatrix thought that there was something familiar about the galling sneer he shot her.  
  
5) Rodolphus Lestrange. She went home that Christmas and asked her father (in general, cool tones) about the Lestrange family, and was told that they were 'respectable'.  
  
Which meant of course that their nobility and lineage was no less faultless than the Blacks.  
  
He was cold and dark, a Prefect whose arrogance both drew and repelled her at once, because she couldn't BEST him and that wasn't supposed to be the case.  
  
Her frequent looks towards him were stubbornly icy like winters that refused to melt.  
  
6) When her third year was finished, she was truly no longer a child and she returned from her Potions examination to the Common Room.  
  
"Bellatrix," his voice was low, smooth as the sheen of a black pearl.  
  
"Yes, Mr. Lestrange?" she both hated and loved that he had never called her the formal and respectful ¡°Miss Black¡±.  
  
"Join me," he told her, waving an elegant hand at the dark chair across from his at the table, shrouded in shadow. She walked over, her stride deceptively dainty, cool.  
  
He poured some strange green liqueur over a spoon with a sugar-cube over a goblet, and a cloud of mist arose.  
  
"Absinthe," his eyes glittered over the fogginess. It was bitter and just a bit of sweet and intoxicating. She sipped delicately, her mind strangely clear despite the strong alcohol. He remained quiet, surveying her almost as if she was still a child.  
  
Just when she was about to snap at him to stop it, he stood, long and lean and towering, and she felt his hand caress her hair before he walked away and out of the Common Room.  
  
7) Bellatrix was granted awe and fear and near-worship, as was her due, and laurels and badges and honours came, as befit someone of her status.  
  
There came rumours of a man... nearly a god, who swore to rid the world of the unworthy. Bellatrix heard her parents whisper about one whose name they feared to speak, because never since Grindelwald had there been one of such power.  
  
When a Mudblood Ravenclaw in her year named Dorcas Meadows was named Head Girl, Bellatrix felt-- not quite shame, but just enough anger that when she finished reading Curses for the Curious (R. Lestrange's name sardonically dark, etched several spaces over her own), she successfully caused a moth on the windowsill to writhe in pain on her first try.  
  
8) She found out, of course, that the book's pain curse was a mere pale shadow of the real one, and it was during that summer after her seventh year, as she read about the real curse (said to be near impossible to cast), that suddenly she felt a presence behind her in her father's library.  
  
A tall young man, longish dark hair, dark eyes, dark robes, in a Black's study. His pale lips were curved just so... not really a smile.  
  
"Bellatrix," he nodded, towering over her with his arms crossed over his chest.  
  
"That's Miss Black to you," she hissed, narrowing her eyes. He stared down at her, eyes like dark daggers that probed at her until a mutinous shiver shot up her spine.  
  
9) It was then that he sneered, and she recognized his expression, and even as blood-sweet lips parted in outrage, he seized them in a searing kiss, and the brash dark beauty who was worshipped by the fearful blokes in school almost whimpered as his tongue (tasting, she noticed, like absinthe) traced the inside of her mouth. She suddenly lifted a hand, long nails scratching the skin of his neck even as she pulled his head down for a deeper kiss.  
  
He pulled away first, moving his elegant hands away from her waist, and he laughed in triumph as he slid a finger through the ladylike bun her hair was pinned in, jet-black strands sliding down in disarray. And then he was striding out of the library.  
  
10) It was ten minutes later that Bellatrix found the House Elf who held in his spindly hands a silver platter bearing R. Lestrange's calling card. She raised her wand, and still tasting absinthe on her lips, she pointed the inflexible ebony at the little creature.  
  
"Crucio."  
  
Feeling the surge of power rise all the way from her heart, coursing through her veins like lust, leaving through her wand arm and hitting the House Elf square in the chest, Bellatrix allowed herself a thin smile as she watched it keen and rock on the floor, a crumpled ball of pain.  
  
Bittersweet and intoxicating and dangerous... she HAD found her success, and high heels clicked on the polished floor as she picked up the calling card from the fallen platter and tucked it into her blouse by her heart. 


	2. Burning Thorns

A/N: A continuation of Absinthe, as requested/badgered/evilly coerced by Kirixchi. Enjoy (hopefully).  
  
Disclaimer: Do not own them, do not want to.  
  
~*~  
  
In the luxurious sitting room of the Lestrange manor, two men, in dark evening-wear, sat on plush armchairs. Rabastan Lestrange took a sip of the red wine in the goblet he held, and smirked slightly at his older brother.   
  
"Are you sure that the lovely Miss Sterling will enjoy this particular opera? Would not something like the Sleeping Beauty ballet be more to her taste?"  
  
Rodolphus curled his lip just slightly. "Perhaps, although whether she has any taste, good, bad or in between, remains to be seen." Patrice Sterling-- beautiful, pure of blood and pure of heart, an angel in the flesh, perhaps. She would make an ideal wife and mother someday, and her obedience and discretion had its uses when it came to certain aspects of business. He could do far worse, he supposed.  
  
She would never cross him, question him, or... truly interest him.  
  
Quiet steps sounded on the staircase, for Patrice wore satin slippers without heels, and Rodolphus stood up to scrutinise his perhaps marriage-interest. Patrice gave him a tremulous sort of smile, her white hands in fingerless lace gloves, her virginally slender body swathed in pearlescent satin the colour of apple blossoms. She gave Rodolphus and his brother a demure smile and blushed becomingly when Rodolphus kissed her amorously on her bare neck.  
  
"Good evening, my love," she said softly, stifling a tiny gasp of pain as Rodolphus bit down at her throat.   
  
"Good evening," Rodolphus drawled, pulling away. "Are you ready to go, then?"  
  
"Yes," Patrice said quietly, "As soon as I get my cloak."  
  
A House Elf brought over a white velvet cloak lined with ermine, and Patrice thanked the little creature as though it were a friend. Carefully, she fastened it around her neck, taking care to hide the tell-tale reddening of her skin where Rodolphus had marked her. She gave her cold hand to Rodolphus, and stayed silent as he touched the portkey to take them to the theatre.  
  
~*~  
  
Bellatrix Black went wherever she pleased, or at least as far as she could get away with it. A pinch of powder in a lace handkerchief had been all that was necessary to purchase her ticket to freedom, and after two sneezes, Aria Black had excused her from the evening's banquet with the Rookwoods and told her to go to bed.   
  
Andromeda and Narcissa had both wished her a good rest, and a House Elf had handed her a goblet of vitality potion. Blithely dumping the concoction into a potted rose on her windowsill, she allowed herself a thin smile as the small bush started to explode in blooms, and pulled a gown the colour of blood from her wardrobe.  
  
By the time that she had slipped her feet into scandalous high heels, there were enough roses for a wreath, and ten minutes later, a lone girl in a rustling red dress and a crown of crimson roses appeared at the entrance of an opera house, gave a haughty look and a handful of coins to the man at the door, and followed the throng inside with her head held high.   
  
Almost as soon as they had entered the actual theatre, Rodolphus left Patrice Sterling with a matronly woman in the upper wings of the theatre, joining his brother and walking towards seats in the front. Glancing upward at where his "ladylove" sat, Rodolphus allowed himself a slight sneer when he watched Patrice refuse to allow Mrs. Rosemond to remove her cloak.  
  
When SHE came, the majority of the throng had already settled in, and the theatre was filled with the sounds of chattering as people waited for everyone to arrive and the show to begin. But the woman in red had opened the door for herself, and entered without any companion. A completely carefree expression on her haughty face, she had strode up to the front seat, a spot of blood-red moving through a sea of the dark that was men's evening clothes, and almost instinctively, a fellow in the front row slid down and away, perhaps sensing danger and excitement, and she acknowledged his action with a brief nod before sitting down right in the center of the row with the grace and aplomb of a queen.   
  
If she had noticed the eyes of a young man darken as she sat down in the seat directly in front of him, she gave no indication, and if she smirked as she leaned her head back just slightly, hearing a slightly sharp intake of breath, he wouldn't have been able to see. The air around her head smelled like the roses she wore, musky and sharpened with the slight tang of blood.  
  
The opera began, and on stage a dark, passionate woman in a crimson gown sang and cried and hated and loved and killed. Bellatrix remained completely still, her seat just out of reach, and watched with glittering eyes as the heroine seduced a man into a world of ruin and fantasy.   
  
It was nearing the witching hour when the last scene ended, and the curtains closed for a moment, only to open again for the performers to take their bows. Bellatrix clapped politely, and stared at the dark-haired young man who had played the toreador with such intensity from the front row that he almost stumbled in surprise. A lady she undoubtedly was, but a lady never sat there.  
  
It was only after the performers left the stage that Bellatrix turned around slowly, and faced the Lestrange brothers with a predatory, milk-white smile.  
  
~*~  
  
"Good evening, gentlemen," Bellatrix nodded her head coolly, her voice smooth as polished steel. Rabastan gave a slight start in recognition.  
  
"Bellatrix Black, isn't it?" the younger man inquired, in a tone that didn't quite hide his surprise. "Are you here with your family?"  
  
"No," Bellatrix replied directly, "But I see that YOU are."  
  
She skimmed her eyes briefly over Rodolphus, an eyebrow raised in some sort of challenge, and smirked when his gaze lingered on her lips. "Good evening, Mr. Lestrange," she remarked, "Fancy running into you here."  
  
"Bellatrix," he nodded, inclining his head, his eyes now settled upon her neck.  
  
"Miss Black," she corrected him a bit sharply, and then another, smaller figure, a woman, joined them.  
  
"There you are, my love," Patrice was smiling, her voice a bit breathless from descending the stairs in her corset. She stepped next to Rodolphus and gave him an insipid look of sweetness, before noticing the woman in red, who was scrutinizing her with a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes.  
  
Bellatrix stared at the other woman. She wore pink. PINK, paler than shriveled carnations. She had blonde hair and blue eyes, much like Narcissa. But Narcissa, even at thirteen, had more of a presence. Bellatrix continued to fix the woman with a piercing stare. Sweet, she was sure... patient. Gentle. Submissive. She looked like a porcelain doll, and was probably even easier to break. Turning to Rodolphus with a raised eyebrow, she asked lowly, "And who is this CHARMING girl, Mr. Lestrange?"  
  
"Patrice Sterling," Rodolphus replied, "My companion for the evening."  
  
"Charmed, miss," Patrice's voice was a dovelike coo, looking up at the taller woman, "You did a magnificent job tonight. Carmen, yes?"  
  
Bellatrix raised her eyebrows and bit down a cruel laugh. "The opera's name is Carmen, yes, Miss Sterling. As is the name of the heroine."  
  
"You sing wonderfully."  
  
"Really," Bellatrix stared at the pale little thing, before suddenly moving her hand to her hair. "And would the lovely Miss Sterling like a rose?"  
  
Before Patrice could refuse, Bellatrix had undone the wreath, none-too-gently pulling out a crimson bloom and pushing it into the other woman's hand. Patrice gasped slightly, then looked down in dismay as a drop of blood slid from her fingertip to stain the white lace of her gloves.   
  
"It has thorns," she whispered, now gingerly holding the flower a bit away from her.  
  
"That it does," Bellatrix replied, her voice a pleasured hiss, "If it didn't, it wouldn't be a rose, would it?"  
  
Rodolphus was almost surprised to see blood in the first place, and stared at the spot: red stained white, a dark blot, almost infectious. He turned his gaze to Bellatrix, who was wearing the beatific smile of an angel on her devil's face, and clenched his jaw as an ache started to pool in his loins.   
  
Almost as if sensing the shift in his mood that would seal her victory, Bellatrix backed away from the group, and fired one final shot at the ethereal Patrice Sterling. "Oh, and if I see the tarty little child who played Carmen, I shall be sure to pass along to her that you enjoyed her performance."  
  
With that, she slid past the group, her bare arm brushing Rodolphus' sleeve, and walked out of the building, disappearing into the night.  
  
~*~  
  
By the time the jerking of the portkey had ceased, Rodolphus was feeling as though the slow simmer that had built up that evening, since the beginning of the opera, was just about ready to boil. Unceremoniously seizing his 'companion of the evening' by the wrist, he pulled her into the nearest bedroom, and the sound of ripping cloth was simultaneous to the slam of the door. She kept a bland smile that was supposed to be encouraging, pasted upon her angelic features.   
  
It was hard, and he knew that it was painful. She was a small thing, and until he had shoved her against the wardrobe, the glass doors cold against her bare back, and forced himself into her, she had never been with a man. She had gasped, biting her lip hard, and if her teeth had cut into her lip, his certainly didn't help the issue. She remained unresisting, her hands weakly clinging to his shoulders for support as he took her, and when it was all over, she kissed him in a conciliatory manner as she fumbled to fix her dress.  
  
She never screamed, or fought back, and as he let her go, he wondered if she… or any of the multitudes of girls just like her, had water in their veins instead of blood.   
  
If that were the case, it didn't quench the burning any more than a dewdrop could extinguish a conflagration. Dissatisfied and a bit impressed with a woman wholly dissimilar to the innocent nymph he'd just deflowered, he went to take a cold shower. 


	3. Not A Fairy Tale Ball

A/N: Have been BLOODY busy, my (3 or so) readers, so sorry for the delay in updating. But here's a chapter so be happy, etc.?  
  
Disclaimer: No, in fact I've been too busy with a million other things to contemplate wangling them out of JKR's little paws...  
  
~*~  
  
Fall had turned to winter before Bellatrix saw him again.  
  
From the Solstice til Christmas were days of celebration for the Blacks. Dead cold winter, and long, dark nights. But in the mansion, there was the brilliant light of countless chandeliers that gleamed like ice crystals.   
  
Narcissa and Andromeda were both home for the holidays, and it was Christmas Eve that HE made an appearance.   
  
Bellatrix wore crimson, the colour bright and bold in a roomful of daintier pastels, but though Aria Black had initially disapproved of the gown, it wasn't to be denied that it became her eldest daughter well, and besides, it WAS Christmas.   
  
And so it was that the three of them, Andromeda in brocade the shade of mint ice and Narcissa barely coming up to Bella's shoulder, in pale blue organdie, stood in a group next to their mother and father and greeted the guests.  
  
Bellatrix had just finished the required dainty curtsey to the Rookwoods when the voice of her mother snapped her out of the semi-stupor of required courtesy with the force of a whip.   
  
"Why, how kind of you to visit, Mr. Lestrange! Where might your brother be?"  
  
Bellatrix glanced up sharply then, unable to hide her surprise, and her eyes met the mockingly bright ones of Rodolphus Lestrange.  
  
"Rabastan will be arriving later," he was telling Aria even as he inclined his head respectfully. "Staggered portkeys and all. Now, who might these LOVELY young ladies be?"  
  
"My daughters," Aria said regally, waving her hand at the three. "Bellatrix, Andromeda and Narcissa. You might remember Bella; the others are probably too young."  
  
Narcissa and Andromeda both sank into graceful, fluid curtseys, but Bellatrix, her thoughts reeling with the sudden, unbidden thought of "No blonde tart hanging on his arm", only did so as well after a sharp look from her father. Narrowing her eyes, she noticed him smirk down at her.  
  
"I do remember Bellatrix, yes," Rodolphus drawled. "She's rather... hard to forget."  
  
Bellatrix felt her back stiffen as she straightened up, and stared the insolent man in the eye with a challenging glare. Her mother merely beamed, before turning to greet the just-arriving Lucius Malfoy.  
  
Rodolphus handed his outer cloak to one of the House Elves, and just before he walked away and out of sight, he gave the eldest Black girl what could only be described as a leer, and raised an elegant finger to his mouth. Slowly trailing the digit across his lips, he stared at her, forcibly reminding her of that time in the library of this very house, that from the appearance of it, no one else knew to this very day.  
  
And he watched in satisfaction as a faint flush of crimson entered her cheeks. He knew that it was not of maidenly shame or modesty, though. Bellatrix was angry, and perhaps that was his intention all along.  
  
~*~  
  
Dinner was an uneventful affair for the most part, with Mordred Black presiding at the head of a table and keeping a very dignified stream of polite conversation, giving sharp looks every once in a while towards the House Elves and his daughters to ensure perfect behaviour from both groups. It was one of these looks that stopped Burney the House Elf from dropping a very large, very complicated array of champagne glasses on a tray (muffled sounds of the House Elf's head being bludgeoned with something or another came shortly afterwards from the direction of the kitchen). It was also one of these looks that forced Bellatrix to lower her eyes demurely, broken out of what could only be called a "staring contest" with the dark, sneering Rodolphus Lestrange who sat across the table from her. Bellatrix picked at her food and silently seethed.  
  
After the dessert had been served, and the guests ushered into the ballroom, Bellatrix found herself leading her sisters (and dragging along an unruly, unwilling bratty cousin Sirius) after them, her head held high and regally. Almost as soon as she'd arrived, a charmingly smiling Evan Rosier asked her to dance.  
  
Bellatrix accepted with a graciously cool nod and flung an icy look of disdain in the general direction of Rodolphus Lestrange. He was standing indolently with his brother Rabastan, and smirked back before allowing himself to be led by an effulgent Annabella Wilkes for an introduction to her daughter Desdemona.  
  
It was when the sensual strains of a tango started playing that Bellatrix found herself-- not politely tapped on the shoulder, but swept up into his arms. Her expression icy, she pulled herself away as her face flushed tellingly, venom in her eyes.  
  
He merely used that and maneuvered her into his arms once more, his hands gripping her waist and pulling her close enough that they were almost locked together, and his eyes were hot as hers were cold, and Bellatrix felt limp in his arms.  
  
It really wasn't fair, and she wasn't supposed to be dancing THIS particular dance anyway. It became a tug-of-war, or perhaps a war of wills, as she pulled away only to be pulled back, and her scarlet skirts swirled around her ankles as her temper flared and her eyes blazed with what-she-hoped-was-hatred. She didn't even notice that several of the others had paused in their dancing to watch them, or that they were in the middle of the dance floor, surrounded.  
  
Off to the side, Andromeda and Narcissa were standing demurely, and the middle sister whispered to the younger one, "They're quite good."  
  
"Father will be furious," Narcissa whispered back, eyeing the crimson-clad sister warily, "A young lady of her upbringing shouldn't be dancing that dance with a single male, in his opinion."  
  
"Let her have her fun," Andromeda sighed softly, "She'll pay for it later, but... there's no stopping her now, I don't think."  
  
Almost on cue, even as the music started to die away, Bellatrix felt a heavy hand on her shoulder, and stiffened as she was pulled away by an unsmiling Mordred Black. Even as she, the picture of obedience, followed her father out of the circle, she spared a glance back at Rodolphus, her face more like a girl's than before now. His expression was solemn, no longer mocking, and some of the dark and twisted brilliance of the night seemed to have faded like black to gray.  
  
~*~  
  
Bellatrix spent the rest of the evening sipping champagne and demurely nodding and smiling at the various people who approached her, dancing once in a while slowly and sedately, Carmen turned to a china doll. Her face remained carefully blank as Erasmus Parkinson twirled her around in excruciating propriety, and kept glancing about the ballroom, seeking out her sisters.  
  
Andromeda was sitting out this one, half-hiding her bored face behind the lace fan she carried. Bella allowed herself a dreary sort of smirk as the greasy Augustus Rookwood asked her to dance. So at least... she wasn't the only one.   
  
Narcissa, though, where was Narcissa? True, she was just a child, merely thirteen, but a thirteen-year-old angel was still allowed to attend. Bellatrix fancied that she might have caught sight of a small blonde near the doors that led to the balcony, but... that was definitely Lucius Malfoy who was WITH said blonde.  
  
Erasmus Parkinson caught her attention again for a moment, twirling her around, and then she wasn't facing the blonde with Malfoy any more, and didn't see what happened next.  
  
~*~  
  
The blonde girl, her face doll-like sweet as she glanced up, threw back her blonde hair as she tugged on the young man's robes in an almost impish manner. "Look up," Narcissa said a bit coyly.  
  
  
  
Even as Lucius Malfoy glanced up and noticed the mistletoe strung upon the ceiling, the feylike girl stood up on tiptoe and brushed a light kiss upon the corner of his mouth. "Happy Christmas, Mr. Malfoy," she said cheerfully, and then she was walking away without a backward glance, pale blue skirts floating behind her, leaving Lucius surprised and unaccountably intrigued.  
  
  
  
Most girls several years older than her wouldn't have had the audacity to do that, much less with such an angelic facade.  
  
~*~  
  
With the advent of midnight came the end of the ball, and the tired sisters, wearing smooth smiles, decorously stood in their thin gowns by the door and bid their guests farewell. Bellatrix didn't look up as she dipped into one curtsey after another, and only FELT a lean, elegant hand seize hers for a kiss. She knew who it was, but right now it would be downright reckless to take direct, noticeable action. She curled her fingers and raked at his palm with her nails, but his hand remained steady, even as he released hers.  
  
About fifteen minutes after that, they were all gone, and even as Aria led the two younger girls off to bed, Mordred summoned Bellatrix to his study.  
  
~*~  
  
Bella went to bed two hours later, her cheek burning and her jaw clenched, as House Elves rushed to clean up the mess and she vindictively kicked one of the little creatures out of her way.  
  
Reaching her bedroom, she found Andromeda and Narcissa, both in their celestially white nightgowns, and as the youngest sister handed her a cold towel for her burning cheek, the middle sister helped her to unlace the gown and unpin her hair.   
  
They were silent through all of this, and though gentle, not affectionate. And then five minutes later, Andromeda and Narcissa walked back out of her room to sleep the slumber of the unburdened, and Bellatrix scowled at the murky night sky. There was a full moon that night, the silvery surface of which seemed to have a face.  
  
It, like another, seemed to be mocking her. 


	4. Ice and Desire

A/N: Yeah, I decided to return to this fic after working on and finishing my senior thesis. I'm sure Kirixchi is fairly angry with me for the long delay, but... at least it's back?  
  
Disclaimer: Get a clue unless you want Bellatrix to curse one into you.

* * *

She knew just how to get the attention of all and hold it as her due. A Black in her imperious elegance: fire in her veins and ice in her eyes, and heads turned as she entered a room, satin dress robes the colour of blood rustling as she walked past with a cool, determined stride.  
  
Bellatrix's eyes didn't linger upon any face as she moved to her table; this was but a ball in honour of Desdemona Wilkes' engagement to Bartholemew Avery, and a Black simply didn't deign to associate with such mere mortals.  
  
There were some ties because of... things, of course. Aria Black had been Miss Wilkes' godmother, but in Bella's eyes, the only redeeming grace of the insipid, white-clad bride-to-be, with her plain face and the frilly muslin robes that her pathetic family must have scrounged up to buy, was her purity of blood.  
  
Bellatrix felt no compunction, obviously, in the unspoken courtesy not to outshine her.  
  
The other girls looked at her with envy and hatred behind vapid smiles, their faces half-hidden behind flimsy lace fans and delicate porcelain teacups. Worship and enmity were laced together like the sweet and the bitter of absinthe, and Rodolphus watched as she called out a sardonically sugary congratulation to Miss Wilkes, and sipped her coffee black, reveling in the way that no one could possibly be indifferent to her.  
  
There was something deliciously magnetic about that, something deeper than beauty or majesty or wealth.  
  
More so than that, there was a heady lure about the idea of having that. Her.  
  
Rodolphus had been roommates with the groom-to-be, and sat at Avery's table, listening with half an ear to the polite conversation and somewhat strained, insipid jokes that Avery and Edmund Mulciber cracked. He knew that Avery was no more interested in marrying Desdemona Wilkes than Avery might have courting a House Elf. He knew of the isolated moments where Mulciber and Avery would spend way more time than necessary after Quidditch practices in the locker rooms. It was almost ironically, laughably pathetic. Mulciber would be the Best Man at the wedding.  
  
Bellatrix would be the maid of honour. That arrangement came from a long-ago agreement between Aria Black and Annabella Wilkes, since Annabella didn't have any other daughters. The groom's younger sister Morwenna, but ten years of age, would be the flower girl.  
  
"A toast," the loud, forcefully jubilant voice of Winston Avery cut through the streams of bland conversation. "To my son and heir, Bartholemew Gordon Avery, and his lovely fiancee Desdemona Jeanne Wilkes, may they have a most prosperous and agreeable marriage!"  
  
A few weak clinks of glass sounded after this declaration, and Rodolphus glanced at the table where the bride-to-be sat. Bellatrix still wore that sardonic smile, eyes glinting through long, smoky lashes.  
  
Mulciber clinked his glass against Avery's, a bit too hard, and Avery gave a sharp little exclamation of surprise as both their glasses broke, champagne dripping down with a hint of blood over their nicked fingers. The House Elves appeared within moments to clean up the mess, and Winston Avery immediately initiated another conversation to distract the guests.  
  
Bellatrix had lifted her own glass demurely up to her lips, her face turned away from the rest of them. Rodolphus watched the light play on the shimmer of red fabric over her shoulders, and fancied that he could see them shaking almost imperceptibly with mirth.

* * *

Much later, after the meal had been finished and the wine glasses were empty, Rodolphus found her in the ballroom, a splash of crimson and jet against a white column. Standing in front of her was a man with lank, dark hair flecked with gray.  
  
"It is a pity that your family did not send you to study in Durmstrang, Miss Black," Rodolphus heard the distinct, accented voice of Antonin Dolohov as he approached. "I would haff appreciated such a fine... mind..." Dolohov's eyes roved over the seductive figure in the crimson gown for a brief moment before rising once again to her face, "In my school."  
  
Bellatrix smiled faintly, ruby lips parting to reveal pristine white teeth. "I'm sure that some aspects of my education will have benefited from going to your school, Mr. Dolohov," she drawled, "but it is a bit too late to rectify the error, is it not?"  
  
"That remains to be seen," Dolohov replied silkily, taking a step forward. "We should discuss it sometime... not here with all the people, though."  
  
"Is that so?" Bellatrix's smile widened, and Rodolphus felt his fingers clench around the wand in his pocket. With narrowed eyes he watched as the young woman took a step forward, towards the significantly older man. "I'll..." Suddenly, Dolohov gave a sharp gasp of pain, and Rodolphus heard the rustling sound of shifting skirts. Looking down, Rodolphus' expression changed into a smirk, seeing the thin, sharp point of Bellatrix's high heel digging into the calfskin toe of the other man's shoe. Almost coquettishly, she twisted her ankle, grinding down the heel even more. "Think about it," she finished in a voice as silky and smooth as Dolohov's, before stepping back, eyes snapping savagely. "Good evening, Mr. Dolohov," she snipped out in an unmistakable tone.  
  
Dolohov backed away, his face red and pinched with humiliation, and Bellatrix smiled almost dreamily. To anyone passing, she was but another one of the beautiful girls of the Black family, leaning demurely against a column as she watched the proceedings.  
  
"Good evening, Bellatrix," Rodolphus greeted her, inclining his head in a mocking half-bow.  
  
"Mr. Lestrange," she returned coolly. "What brings you here?" The smile vanished now, replaced by a look of hauteur. "And... it's Miss Black, NOT Bellatrix, to you."  
  
"Come now," he said softly, seizing her hand before she could snatch it away. "We know each other better than that."  
  
"I suppose YOU have no sense of propriety," she retorted in a soft, sharp hiss.  
  
"As much as you do, Bellatrix," he replied, tugging on her hand and pulling her away from the column. "And what did Dolohov want from you?"  
  
"Something that he will never have," Bellatrix replied, narrowing her eyes. "Nothing of import to you, of course."  
  
"And THAT, my dear, is where you are wrong," he whispered, sharply pulling her into his arms and onto the dance floor. Even as she aimed a vicious kick at his ankle, he twirled her, watching the skirts flare out around her legs. "Everything about you is of great importance to me."  
  
"I suggest you limit your impertinence around ME," she said haughtily. Her cheeks were starting to flush from both the quick pace of the dance, and the anger rising in her chest. "You do not want to cross me."  
  
"Oh no," Rodolphus pulled her close enough to smell the fragrance of the blood-red rose pinned behind her ear. She stiffened as his breath ruffled her hair. "Contrary to your opinion, I'd like to... as much and often as possible."  
  
"I'll kill you," she threatened. It was certainly not a ladylike sentiment to express, and his lips parted in a smile over her temple.  
  
"I'll HAVE you," he replied in an almost-sweet voice. She was untamed, proud and beautiful-- a princess in looks and bearing with the strength of a warrior. There was no one more worthy, and he smiled as he felt her fingers clenching painfully around his, nails digging into his skin.  
  
The song drew to a close, and she wrenched herself out of his grasp, her gaze icy and venomous. "Good evening, Mr. Lestrange."  
  
"Take care until next time... Bellatrix," he returned, moving his fingertips to his lips and pressing a lingering kiss upon them before blowing it towards her.  
  
His eyes moved from the arrogant, angry set of her shoulders to the swaying of her hips as she whirled almost violently on her heel and stalked away. Looking down, he saw something small and red on the ground, and smiled to himself as he stooped and picked it up.  
  
It was the rose she'd worn in her hair. 


	5. The Other Rebel

A/N: Decided to update. W00. Hope everyone in the states had a nice and food-filled Thanksgiving. Chapter dedicated to Kirixchi, to make her feel better. 

Disclaimer: I don't own them.

The next tempest in the domestic teapot of Mordred Black's home surprisingly did not involve Bellatrix in the center of it.

It was Andromeda's first letter home in her sixth year that had caused the chaos.

The middle daughter wrote that she was doing fine in her classes, and thanked her parents for the inquiries and the parcel of pleasure reading books and school supplies. The new Slytherin Prefects in the 5th year (Florence Springfield and Xavier Bulstrode) were fairly well-behaved, barring the small debacle of Florence being caught snogging Marius Nott behind one of the greenhouses by some Gryffindor girl or another. She'd had a few troubles grasping Trigomancy concepts in Arithmancy class at first, but after a tutoring session with the professor, that problem had been resolved. Oh, and she was going to try out for Seeker now that Dorian Higgs had left school and there was an opening on the team.

Mordred Black, scowling like a thundercloud, slammed down his fork with a clang, stopping his wife's reading of Andromeda's letter mid-sentence. His dark eyes were flashing furiously even as his face reddened. "AN INGRATE! THAT'S WHAT SHE IS!"

Aria Black, a tight expression on her pale face, stood up gracefully but carefully from her spot at the table and walked over to her husband, laying a delicate hand on his shoulder. "Dear, do calm down... you're frightening Bella."

That was a patent falsehood and everyone knew it. Mordred Black glared balefully at his wife. "Your DAUGHTER," he started coldly, "wants to tromp about like a common peasant, cavorting with boys on broomsticks! Does she not have any sense of propriety?!"

Aria sighed. "I'm sure that, even in the case that Andromeda really were to try out, she would behave properly as befits our family."

"HOW could she behave properly, Aria?" Mordred snarled. "Since when did girls from proper homes and families try out for Quidditch teams?!"

Bellatrix had remained silent since her father's outburst had put an abrupt end to the letter-reading, the porridge in her bowl getting cold as she silently mulled over the contents of her sister's missive. She had always been close to Andromeda, who had generally been more supportive of her own escapades than Narcissa. Going out for Seeker WAS rather improper, to be sure, but there was still something to be said about her sister's determination. Andromeda might amount to something if she didn't slouch into the mode of unremarkable middle sister, and the letter gave some hope...

"Since when did Blacks have to follow all those outdated trends, anyway?" she inquired quietly.

Her father and mother, who had been bickering about Andromeda's upbringing, both turned to stare at her. Bellatrix met her father's gaze coolly and squarely.

"WHAT did you just say, Bellatrix Black?"

Bellatrix raised her chin, making sure to keep her voice modulated and rational. "Andromeda wouldn't be so foolish, I don't think, to take this little fascination with Quidditch beyond a school game or two. And you did always say, father, that you firmly believed in people pursuing their talents and maximizing their potential."

"That does not include QUIDDITCH." Mordred Black snipped out. "It's simply not DONE."

Bellatrix seemed to think about this for a moment, before sighing languidly. Her voice was slightly doleful, much like Narcissa's might be when she found it difficult to get her own way. "Well. I suppose you know best, father." She glanced down at her plate. "Andromeda SHOULD be grooming herself to be more like, say, Maeve Travers. She seems to hold promise as a decorous debutante."

That hit a nerve, and Bellatrix knew it. Demetrius Travers and Mordred Black had been at odds for years due to business rivalry. Her father had a slight advantage currently, and Bellatrix had overheard him sneer derisively to his wife at the Avery/Wilkes engagement party that for all her frills and finery, Travers' chit would never amount to anything at all, since like her father she was born without a brain in her head.

"NO daughter of mine shall ever be like a Travers," Mordred narrowed his eyes. "Andromeda's made of finer mettle than THAT."

"I'd certainly hope so; she's a Black," Bellatrix sensed an impending victory and gave her father her sweetest smile, gratified to see the gleam of pride in his eyes.

Aria glanced from daughter to husband, and smiled as well. "Darling, let's let Andromeda have a little bit of her fun." Her husband's smile faded, but she pressed on. "If she's anything like you, she'd never use it to bring shame to her family."

The conversation topic was changed then, and though no one sent Andromeda any notes of acknowledgement in regards to this startling new pursuit, no one stopped Bellatrix, either, from sending Andromeda one of the better brooms in the family's collection.

Andromeda Black's first and last game as the Slytherin team's Seeker would be the only Slytherin victory that year. The only female on her team, she smiled almost sweetly at the Hufflepuffs as Amos Diggory and Aurelius Bole shook hands, and steadfastly ignored any catcalls from the audience. She took to the air on her Silver Arrow right behind Bole, and soon started to circle the pitch.

The game was a close one, as both Hufflepuff and Slytherin Chasers scored goal after goal, and their respective supporters alternately cheered and booed as the game progressed. The snitch was nowhere in sight, and both teams were already approaching one hundred points in score.

It was just after Slytherin Chaser Jonathan Caligo had scored (100:90, SLYTHERIN!) against Hufflepuff Keeper Bartemius Crouch that Andromeda caught sight of a flash of gold hovering in the air about ten feet from the ground and took a steep dive. Hufflepuff Seeker in hot pursuit, she zoomed across the pitch at a dizzying speed, eyes focused on the elusive spot of gold.

And just as she reached out and caught the ball in her palm, a Bludger from Diggory slammed into her from the right side. The crowd gasped collectively as the willowy girl was sent careening from the broom, a splash of brunette hair and green and silver robes against a blue sky.

Madame Hooch, the Quidditch referee, flew off towards the scene at top speed, but even before she could reach the falling girl, Andromeda's descent was halted by a pair of strong arms. As the audience watched, the Hufflepuff Seeker caught his counterpart securely around the waist, his own broom gripped between his thighs, and with one arm around Andromeda's waist for stability, Ted Tonks steered the broom with his other hand and lowered both of them safely to the ground.

The teachers swarmed upon them then, and a grim-faced Professor Montague, head of Slytherin House, conjured up a stretcher to take Andromeda to the hospital wing. For a split second, before she was led off, Andromeda's bright, pain-filled blue eyes locked with Tonks' concerned hazel ones, and she gave him a sweet smile.

It was Narcissa who wrote her parents this time, describing the game and its end in detail while Andromeda was being fussed over by the nurse for her broken arm. Not a week had passed before Mordred Black put his foot down and wrote a stern letter to Andromeda ordering her resignation from the Quidditch team. Her broom was confiscated when he visited Hogwarts, and the Slytherins were left scrambling to find a replacement. None of Aurelius Bole's earnest entreaties affected Mordred Black's final decision, and Slytherin was slaughtered by Ravenclaw a month later, as Ying-Ying Zhao caught the Snitch twenty minutes into the game with nary a struggle. Andromeda watched from the crowd, cheeks red with cold and disappointed fury, as the Ravenclaw Seeker brought the final score to 170:10, and Severus Snape, Slytherin's reserve Seeker, skulked off like a shadow.

It was that very evening when Bellatrix's owl for her sister arrived, bearing a light parcel. A glossy picture of a sylphlike witch in stylish robes graced the cover, and Andromeda listlessly flipped open the fashion magazine, only to stare in comprehension a moment later. Ensconced in her corner, the 6th year put her tribulations to rest as she devoured the cunningly disguised latest version of Quidditch Through The Ages, and it was nearing two o'clock in the morning when she was finally through with the book to pen an effusive letter of thanks to her sister, the other rebel.


	6. Flame Amongst Icicles

A/N: This is the last chapter of Absinthe that will be written until I am back from vacation. Hope you like it! Dedicated to Kirixchi. 

Disclaimer: I don't own anyone, not even Kiri Sterling ;)

* * *

Virgilia and Horatius Malfoy's estate was glittering with fairies and white rose garlands encircling the waists of angels carved out of ice when she and her family arrived for the Solstice banquet. It was grandly decorated, as befit a family of the Malfoys' status, but strangely foreign. Where the Blacks favoured a darker, heavier elegance, the Malfoys seemed to gravitate towards icy, glittering splendour. Bellatrix made her greetings to the important families, and followed her father and mother into the ballroom.

The foods-- light, airy and insubstantial hor d'oeuvres of countless types, lay on gleaming crystal platters on a long table at one end of the ballroom, as did silver trays holding delicate champagne flutes. Bellatrix noted already, much to her disdain, that Tiberius Goyle and Bruno Crabbe, both two years under her in Slytherin House, seemed to have affixed themselves to that table permanently. It was fortunate for them that their family inheritance was considerable enough for others to overlook their atrocious manners to an extent.

Next to her, wearing ice-blue satin, Narcissa seemed to notice the same and gave a delicate sniff. "Do you think that the food will be EDIBLE once they're done ravaging it?"

"If it isn't, you could always ask Lucius to have the House Elves bring you a snack," Bellatrix smirked.

Narcissa raised her eyebrows in a patent expression of innocence. "It would be terribly rude and offensive for me to ask Mr. Malfoy such a personal favour."

"I'm sure he wouldn't mind," Bellatrix drawled. "Your robes even match." The heir of the Malfoy family wore navy blue velvet, his long blond hair tied back in a neat queue. Narcissa stole a glance at the young man, and smiled when he caught her gaze.

Andromeda, who had been stopped on her way into the ballroom by Augustus Rookwood, made her way over to them and broke their banter. The middle sister's lips were set in a grim line, and she was trying to wipe her hands discreetly on her rustling green skirts. "Slimy git," she muttered under her breath. "He's at least ten years my senior."

Narcissa patted her hand sympathetically, carefully avoiding any spot where Rookwood might have kissed, and Bellatrix gave Andromeda a bracing smile. "At least he's a pureblood."

Andromeda nodded distractedly, and Bellatrix chalked her sister's inattention to lingering irritation at Rookwood. And then, rather suddenly and rather close by, she heard the honeyed voice of Kiri Sterling. "Rodolphus, how lovely to see you again... it's been ages since our paths have crossed."

"Despicable," Bellatrix's lip curled upward, and she seemed oblivious to Andromeda and Narcissa's curious looks. "The little tart is flirting with her sister's former paramour."

Kiri Sterling had pure bloodlines, a sizeable inheritance, and the sort of beauty that was rather fashionable these days, with snow-pale skin and red-gold hair that flowed over her slim shoulders. Bellatrix was unacquainted with her-- she'd been in Ravenclaw and basically unworthy of her notice, but it was galling to see these insipid wenches throwing themselves at HIM, of all people...

"I think I need to go outside for some fresh air," she heard her own voice, clipped and cold as the Malfoys' ice sculptures. "I shall return in a while."

She stepped away from her sisters, face blank, and slipped in between couples and groups of people, her steps measured so as to not draw attention to herself, and then she was at the French doors that led to the expansive, fairy-lit gardens. With the music and conversation that filled the ballroom, most did not notice the slight creak of the doors opening and closing.

Most.

Bellatrix was just entering the rose gardens, warmed with spells and decorated with more fairies, when she heard footsteps behind her. And then a voice-- velvety, mocking baritone. "The boys in the ballroom are languishing over the lack of your company, Bellatrix."

Her spine stiffened, and she determinedly strode forward, refusing to look at him. "It's Miss Black to you, Mr. Lestrange," she replied frigidly. "And I'm sure that the GIRLS in the ballroom are devastated far more over the lack of YOUR company than the boys are over the lack of mine."

"So flattered to hear such a high opinion of myself coming from you." She could practically hear the smirk in his voice. "I do believe that Bellatrix Black would not be one to give commendation lightly."

"I did NOT just commend you," she snapped, unable to stop herself from throwing a glare over her shoulder at him. He was only several feet away, and she quickened her footsteps.

"Such a little wildcat, Bella," his voice was right by her ear now, warm breath tickling her neck, and an instant later, she felt a large, strong hand closing around her wrist. "You're a flame amongst icicles here... it's not truly your scene, is it?"

"You've no right to judge me or presume to know a damned thing about me, Mr. Lestrange," she struggled to free her wrist, her eyes flashing dangerously. "And you would do best to behave properly around me-- I'm not one of your whores."

"Indeed you're not," he nodded placidly. "Glad to see that we're in agreement upon this... though what's the fun of 'proper behaviour'? Watching an opera from the balcony is so much less interesting."

She bristled at the reminder of that one evening-- the decorous, fluttery little blonde that was his companion-- the sister of said blonde who'd been cooing at him in the ballroom. "Don't compare me to HER."

"There's no comparison," he said decidedly, his face suddenly very close to hers, and then before she could pull away with a scathing remark, his lips were pressed against hers, hands banding around her wrists as she struggled, and when she gasped in outrage, he deepened the kiss, tasting of champagne and dark chocolate and mint. Dizzy from breathlessness, she stopped struggling and leaned against him, hating herself for needing his support, but forgetting it as soon as his hands slid from her wrists to her waist, pulling her flush against him as his lips strayed from her mouth towards her jaw.

Faintly in the distance, even as she tried to bite back a moan when his tongue touched her pulse point, she heard Narcissa's voice calling her name, and then Rodolphus was pushing her back-- holding her against his body as he strode farther away from the house and into the cover of some tall, pruned bushes.

He came to a stop when they were out of view of the house, and pulled away to look at her, smirking as he took in the mussed hair and swollen lips, the hand clenched around his own cravat. "They won't find us here," he said matter-of-factly.

She glanced around them, and her eyes widened in alarm before narrowing once again in rage. "No doubt," she hissed angrily, pointing at the even green walls all around them with a shaking finger. "We're in a HEDGE MAZE!"

"So it seems," he remarked with infuriating complacency, glancing at the flawlessly pruned hedges. One corner of his lip curved upwards. "Enchanted icicles and more fairies. I see that Mrs. Malfoy has a definite theme to her decorations."

"Who in the world bloody cares about Mrs. Malfoy's taste in decorations?!" Bella demanded, her voice rising in pitch. "I am stuck in a sodding HEDGE MAZE with YOU, of all the people in the world!" She did have her wand, true, but she could hardly hike up her skirts to unfasten it from her garter belt in front of HIM! And, of course, wantonly destroying the Malfoys' garden would not go very well with anyone present. It would be very poor form for a Black.

"You know," he drawled, one hand resting against a green wall, his eyes glittering with amusement, "the more you panic, my love, the less we're likely to escape from this maze."

"I am NOT your love!" she snarled. "How DARE you?!"

He took another step further into the maze, and she followed, her eyes still flashing. "I HATE you, Mr. Lestrange," she bit out. "And don't call me 'love' again!"

"You hate me, hmm?" he asked blandly. "You barely know me, and yet you go through so much trouble to form such a deep feeling for me."

"STOP twisting everything I say!"

"Stop incriminating yourself, Bella," he retorted languidly, one hand still against the wall of the hedge maze as they continued down their path.

The banter-- amused on his part and irate on hers, continued for several more minutes as they continued down their path. Bellatrix reassured herself that she was following him because... well, if she were to get lost in a bloody hedge maze, it would be better to blame HIM afterwards than to be found alone Merlin knew when. It WAS his fault for yanking her in, anyway.

"You know, Bella," he remarked in a low, mellow voice, his eyes tinged with challenge, "The fellows you left in the ballroom would worship you-- given the chance."

"And why should I 'give them the chance'?" she queried haughtily. "Unwashed cretins-- the lot of them."

"Good to know that you're still mine." Her eyes widened at his impertinent declaration, and he took a step towards her, dark eyes intense as they gazed into her face. "You've always been mine, Bella. You always will be."

The hand she raised to claw at his face, nails outstretched like talons, was caught in his, and within the space of two seconds, she was in his arms again, kissing him back somewhat against her will, and her blood was on fire from the searing heat of his lips and what she wasn't quite sure was really hatred, pooling in her stomach and roaring through her veins. NO one dared to take liberties with Bellatrix Black.

Not quite no one.

And when he released her hand and she pulled savagely at his hair, a few of the silky strands coming loose in between her clenched fingers, he didn't pull away from the pain or her anger, and deepened his kiss, his lips almost bruising hers as one hand clenched around her waist. Almost-pain and pleasure and passion-- and she couldn't stop or move away.

When they broke apart for air this time, she stumbled, leaning back to rest against the hedge-- and found nothing but air. He caught her before she could fall, and gazed about them with a smile.

"Well then," he remarked, raising his hand from her waist to her hair, smoothing the ebony locks down her back and around her face, "It seems as though we've found out way out of the maze after all."

Bellatrix stood transfixed, her eyes belatedly noticing that they were once again surrounded by roses, the house in view several hundred yards away. She stiffened when his fingertip traced a leisurely path across her kiss-reddened lips, and he gave her a mocking half-bow. "Shall I escort you back into the ballroom, Miss Black?"

"You remembered my name," she managed to say bemusedly, inwardly horrified at the blunt, guileless statement.

"Bellatrix Black-- a woman warrior," his voice was a caress as he took her arm and started walking at a sedate pace towards the house. "I do believe we are acquainted."


	7. Plots and Rebellions

A/N: This was written at the airport, while I was waiting for my plane to take me on my vacation :D Hope everyone likes!

Disclaimer: I don't presume to own Bellatrix. Last time I checked, my name wasn't Rodolphus Lestrange.

Rodolphus returned home at midnight with his younger brother, minds set and hearts pounding. The meeting had been very informative indeed, and the Dark Lord, eyes a strange shade of piercingr ed, had hissed to him before they left.

"I demand absolute loyalty," the new Dark Lord said with a hint of menace. "Those who serve me well shall be richly rewardeddd, and the ones who stray shall barely live to regret the error. Such... oblique considerations as paltry, superficial friendships and relations have no place here. Your fealty belongs to ME."

Avery, ever the tactless idiot, blurted out a fearful "We're not allowed to answer to the wills of our families?"

"Fool!" Lord Voldemort cast him to the ground with a casual flick of his wand, "Let us hope that you shall never have to choose between your family, and between ME. YOU shall be the one to bring them down, if it came to that."

It was not a matter of fear or apprehension, really. Rodolphus knew that his whole family had been waiting for a saviour like Lord Voldemort. But what of potential additions to his family?

An image of a raven-haired beauty with flashing eyes arose in his mind, and he smiled to himself. It wasn't that sweet, stupid love nonsense heralded by the bourgeois, of that he was fairly sure. She was simply the best-- the woman that was everyone else's unattainable dream. A Black, but furthermore, the most audacious, imperious woman he'd ever met. An angel's face that hid the tongue and temper of a pit viper, and she saw through the pretensions of their world.

She wanted more, just as he did.

And she responded to him-- venomous eyes and crimson cheeks and icy words. He made her explode in glorious, volcanic rage that night at the Malfoy estate, and then she kissed him back with the same bruising force that he used with her.

She wouldn't be scared of a husband who served the Dark Lord.

She would be faithful... once he'd caught her. And a Lestrange deserved the best in a wife.

Now, he had to figure out how to catch her, and catch her thoroughly enough that she could not find a way to escape. It would require some planning, to be sure.

By Mephistopheles, she'd be furious afterwards.

His grin widened. It would be worth the effort and the fallout to have the best.

And Bellatrix was beautiful when she was angry.

At her family house, Bellatrix was unaware of these machinations, though as it was, she was angry enough with the way things were.

The holidays had drawn to a close-- Andromeda and Narcissa were going back to school, and so were Sirius and Regulus. It was only that evening that Mordred and Claudius Black, along with their wives and children, dined for the last time at 12 Grimmauld Place, and the parents gave their errant offspring their list of expectations for the upcoming year.

It had started innocently enough. Regulus had complained that the Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, Professor Bones, disliked him and treated him unfairly. Claudius Black had been unmoved by this excuse for Regulus' unsatisfactory marks-- did not both Bellatrix and Andromeda receive Outstandings on their Defense Against the Dark Arts OWLs under the same teacher? Regulus was a BOY, and it was insupportable that his female cousins should do better than him in their studies. Sirius declared that Regulus was merely stupid, and Regulus, unchildlike venom in his sharp gray eyes, shouted that in the very least, HE was not friends with Muggle-loving filth like James Potter.

Narcissa had gasped, big blue eyes wide with horror, and Bellatrix recalled a day three years ago when James Potter had practiced a hex he'd considered particularly amusing on her youngest sister. Narcissa's golden locks had been transfigured into straw, and Bellatrix had been enraged. Then, she had been in sixth year, both Sirius and Narcissa in first, and even after she had taken 50 points from Sirius' house for his housemate's transgressions, Sirius had understood the necessity. The next day, Potter had appeared at the Great Hall sporting a black eye magnified by his glasses, and Sirius had worn a vindictively pleased expression. Narcissa had been left alone afterwards, and Bellatrix had seen to it that both her sisters were immediately caught up on casting curses.

But now, Sirius' face betrayed defiance, and no contradiction of his brother's accusation.

And then, as both Claudius and Medea Black railed at Sirius, and Bellatrix sat, somewhat too shocked to speak, Andromeda stood up from her seat to declare that whom Sirius befriended was his own business. If Potter proved to be an unworthy, unpleasant acquaintance, Sirius should be given the chance to find out for himself.

By the time both sets of parents had screamed themselves hoarse, with no apparent effect on either Sirius or Andromeda, it had gone past midnight.

It was only Aria Black's muttered reminder that the children had to go back to school the very next day that recalled everyone. Bellatrix and her sisters left #12 Grimmauld Place to the sound of a whipcrack coming from the direction of Sirius' room.

Bellatrix held Narcissa like their mother had stopped doing after they'd passed age seven, and waited until her youngest sister had fallen asleep before returning to her own room.

She was not completely shocked to find Andromeda waiting for her there.

The two sisters glanced at each other rather tensely, and Andromeda was the one who finally broke the silence.

"You understood what I meant, right?"

Bellatrix wasn't quite sure that she did. Her skepticism must have shown on her face, because Andromeda's face took on a slightly beseeching look.

"If Sirius finds out that he is doing something wrong, he'll stop," Andromeda murmured. "If we force him, we'll lose him."

"If he doesn't know what's right and what's wrong-- in something as important as THIS-- he deserves to be lost," Bellatrix's voice sounded cold even to herself. "It isn't a small issue."

Andromeda nodded slowly. "I... I think that Sirius couldn't really be made to anything, anyhow," More silently. "None of us really can."

It was one of those vague statements that didn't mean anything, that Andromeda was wont to give whenever she was trying to dodge a question or hide something. And Bellatrix knew her sister too well to be satisfied with that.

"I need to go to bed," Andromeda might have sensed Bellatrix's growing feeling of discontent, and gave her volatile older sister a half-hearted embrace before stepping out of the room.

It was three o'clock when Bellatrix finally went to bed. In Narcissa's valise, placed carefully within the pages of her favourite fashion magazine, was a note that she'd given to one of the House Elves.

It felt somewhat wrong to ask Narcissa to keep a very close eye on their other sister. 


	8. Bittersweet and Burn

A/N: Haven't worked on this in QUITE a while! In fact, have been busy with moving, getting a new job, and all those silly grown-up things, but this needed to be written for Kirixchi's birthday. Enjoy! 

Disclaimer: Obviously now.

* * *

Andromeda didn't come home. Again. Bellatrix stood in the shadows, for once in no mood to shine, and moodily drank from her goblet of absinthe. It had been the second time in as many weeks that Andromeda had gotten into an argument with their parents, about such petty things as the colour of the linens that Ariadne Black wanted to start preparing for her hope chest, and like the last, Andromeda had thrown something against the wall in true Black temper and flown out the window on the broom that had been confiscated from her at school.

It was midnight now, and Aunt Medea was hissing in the corner that Andromeda needed harsher rules-- girls could not afford to be spoiled in this day and age. A part of Bellatrix agreed, furious at her sister for her increasingly rebellious acts-- rebellions that would go nowhere, for Andromeda didn't have the strength to go head-to-head, ultimately, with their way.

Useless! Fiery, heavy-lidded eyes gazed at the family crest on the wall, before flickering to the tapestry opposite. Andromeda-- so very bright, and so very stupid, to choose all the wrong battles! Was it really important whether she had peach-coloured linens or periwinkle ones? Augustus Rookwood, her intended, wouldn't care a whit either way.

And why did these little things matter so much anyway?

Narcissa sat in the corner, angelically quiet, the perfect child, and Bellatrix felt a sudden feeling of inexplicable anger. The only one who never rebelled-- the only one who got exactly as she wanted. SHE never underestimated Narcissa, and respected whatever form of witchcraft her youngest sister wove to keep herself in everyone's good graces forever, but then, why did SHE deserve everything? What did Narcissa HAVE or DO to get it so easily?

Were families supposed to hate each other sometimes?

She didn't know how much more of the ominous quiet and the whispering she could take.

Draining the absinthe, she inhaled harshly at its bittersweet flavour, the burn of the wormwood down her throat, and glanced at her mother. "I'm going for a walk."

"At THIS hour?" Aria asked incredulously. "What in the world are you thinking?"

"To find Andromeda," Bellatrix lied curtly, a bit contemptuously. "She listens to me more than you."

And she had Apparated away before anyone else could say a word. In her wake, Sirius clapped. "Maybe after every one of us leaves, THEN you sods will realize that you have miserable, meaningless lives!"

* * *

She ended up in a pub, looking far too out of place as she petulantly threw a handful of galleons on the table and ordered another goblet of absinthe. The men at the pub certainly noticed, and for once, Bellatrix didn't give a damn either way. Delicate features almost shielded by undignifiedly unbound hair, she sat alone, drinking in the bittersweetness and the burn.

It was inevitable that someone would approach her sooner or later, and a drunkard with rotten teeth lurched over, one hand outstretched to caress her satin-clad arm. A moment later, he was on the ground, howling in pain as a barely-legal curse caused sores to break out all over his body. The sharp point of a high heeled shoe dug into the sore on the back of his neck, and the woman attached to it continued drinking. None of the patrons bothered her now, several recognizing her face when she'd lifted her head to cast the hex. It was folly to mess with Miss Black.

A throat clearing above her head had her sputtering, eyes watering as the alcohol went down the wrong pipe. She glared up through a haze of alcohol and melancholy, translated to anger in her meanly-narrowed eyes, and thought she almost recognized the face.

"I warrant that there are people worried about you right now, Bellatrix." The voice she certainly recognized-- husky, arrogant, sardonic, and her fingers clenched around the empty goblet. "Do they know where you are?" He exhibited supreme lack of concern over the prone body of the hexed man at his feet.

"Fuck them," she choked out as soon as she stopped coughing, and then stiffened. When had he laid a hand on her back, and why hadn't she noticed?

"Such foul words to come out of such a beautiful mouth," he tsked, and before she could wrench herself away, pulled her up with one hand, the other dropping a few galleons on the table. "You're getting pissed in public. It's very unbecoming, you know."

"Don't judge me, Mr. Lestrange," she spat in his face, struggling to free her wrist. 'Bastard. Gripping my wand arm... I'll have bruises.' "You know nothing about me."

A pop and a sudden change of scenery, and it was too much for her stomach to take. She retched, the effects of alcohol without food and the Apparation draining her almost as effectively as a hex. He held her hair back just in time, and after she'd finished, wiped her mouth with a handkerchief almost gently.

"I'll have my House Elf run a bath for you, and find something for you to wear," he told her in a tone of uncharacteristic magnanimity. She glared on principle.

"I've no intention of wearing anything that had previously touched any of those Sterling skanks you're so fond of playing with," she snapped.

His lips curved into a devilish grin. "Then you can go about naked. I think I'd actually prefer it that way."

Her aim was a little bit off, impaired by the alcohol, and her hand made contact with his shoulder instead of his cheek. He still winced in pain, and caught her wrist in his grip again. "Now now, my little wildcat, save your fury for later, hmm?" he whispered, snapping his fingers. As soon as the spindly house elf appeared, he ordered it to run a bath, and prepare a draught of hangover potion.

He told himself that he was taking care of her because it would be more satisfying to cross her-- to work her into a passionate fury, when she was fully alert to fight back, and carried her up the stairs to the bath chamber. Leaving her in the capable hands of a pair of house-elves, he left, unaccountably moody. It was disconcerting to see Bellatrix Black brought to this state: fire doused by some poisonous internal battle.

An hour later, Dilly came to report that the lady visitor was clean and had refused every gown that had been presented to her, claiming that she was sure that it had belonged to some trampy whore. Miss Black had thrown the soap dish at Korry, what did Master want Dilly to do?

"Give her one of my robes at present," Rodolphus said lazily, his eyes amused. Dilly bowed and exited, and he smiled to himself at the mental image. And the possible outcomes of her excursion tonight.

A few minutes later, Bellatrix had been deposited in a sitting room upstairs, Dilly cajoling her to drink the hangover draught and eat the biscuits in the platter. She was just about to shoo the House Elf out of the room when Rodolphus entered, a smirk on his swarthy face.

"Looking ravishing as ever, Bellatrix," he drawled, eyes flitting from her mutinous face to the lush, elegant figure, sensuous even in his over-large dressing gown. Black hair and Black hauteur. White skin against burgundy satin. "Do you feel better now?"

"No," she glared at him. "Whatever gave you the impression that I would? And it's Miss Black to you!"

He shook his head, advancing on her with a predatory look in his eyes. "Never that, my dear," he hissed. "Not you." She sprang up, and the robe slipped off one shoulder in her sudden movement. And his control snapped.

She was in his arms, pulled so tightly against him that she could hear his heartbeat, seeming cacophonous in her ear, and his lips were branding hers, tasting like absinthe, and it was strangely fitting and infuriating at the same time. She couldn't help responding-- couldn't stop the moan from escaping between her lips, and one hand tangled into his hair and yanked.

He groaned, the hand which had clasped her waist sliding lower to grasp her arse, lifting her slightly off the ground as the other hand slid down to cup her thigh. She clung to him, now off-balanced, and he drank the rage from her lips, still bittersweet from the absinthe.

"Why do you do this?" she managed to hiss accusingly in between kisses, as he backed her into one of the many bedrooms. "Why do you do this to me?"

"Because I can, and because you're YOU," he replied, his voice harsh from the pain of her fingernails digging into his nape. "You're MINE, Bellatrix. Always."

"Prove it!" she tried to wrench herself away, and only succeeded in ripping a sleeve off the robe in the struggle. He leered at her shocked expression, and pulled her even closer.

"I think I already have," he told her evenly, nipping at her throat. "But I can be more thorough if that's what you desire."

Without giving her a chance to answer, he carried her over to the bed, one hand already clenched around the robe to wrench it open. She shrieked in outrage, yanking once again at his hair, and the screech turned into a moan again when he, undeterred by her vicious attack, seized her lips with his again.

The thought arose unbidden that her parents would be outraged. And a fine thing to be angry over-- far better than stupid linens! She'd show her bloody sisters just how it was done, then! Laughing hollowly, she clutched him closer, and mused that in a way, she'd be using HIM, too. That in itself was a satisfying thought. No one used Rodolphus Lestrange.

He ripped the robe off her body, hands roaming up her sides, and her thought abated in giddy delirium. In her slightly drunken, melancholy state, she thought that she still had complete control.

And perhaps it would turn out that she had.


End file.
